Volvo: A Love Story
by hum-hum-humbug
Summary: He didn't know that buying the Volvo just because House liked it would lead to twenty years of House meddling in his life. He remembers the road trips,the one night they had to sleep in the car and comes to realize something about them both.
1. Introduction

**AN: This is going to be a three shot guys. All centered around the car and the HW relationship. Kind of slash (as you will see in upcoming chapters) but it's also centered on their intense friendship so you can ignore the slash if you'd like.**

**The first chapter serves as an introduction. The other two chapters are decidedly heavier and more action-packed: post-infraction road trip, a lot of angst and a few realizations. I've already written them up but I'd like some feedback first. Keep in mind that this is just the intro if you do review but also know that I'm very open to constructive criticism. Please, please drop a line. You're all writers and you know how much feedback helps in editing upcoming chapters.**

* * *

"Sell the Volvo?" House cried from the couch, cheeks engorged with Chinese food, "why don't you just carve my heart out of my chest and invite everyone to have a drunken rave on it?"

Wilson knew this was going to be hard. House liked the Volvo. House didn't like change. Of course House hated the idea of selling the Volvo. In response, the only thing he could do was to knead the back of his neck and reassure him, "I'm buying another car. A better one."

Still shoveling noodles into his mouth from an oil-soaked white box and eyes glued to the TV, House grunted his disapproval. "You don't need a better car," he huffed, "seriously, if you have too much money on your hands I'm here for you."

Wilson turned to the sink and scrubbed away at a particularly stubborn oil stain on the plate at the very top of the pile. It had been House's turn to do the dishes, of course, but the wildlife growing on their plates had finally brought Wilson to surrender.

"Good to know my money's going towards feeding hungry children," he said with a contemptuous and mildly amused glance towards the boxes of Chinese takeout.

House grinned in his direction, "now that I think about it, this whole "new car" thing can be good."

This caused Wilson to abandon the dishes and whip around in surprise. No way House had just surrendered. There was a clause attached and he didn't want to know what it was. Nonetheless he invited House to divulge the rest of the thought process with an arch of his brows and a movement of his hands to his hips.

"Well, when we bought the Volvo I felt like a kid in an amusement park. Car shopping will be fun," House continued, "I'm thinking something a little more bold this time, you being star oncologist and everything. Maybe a Corvette? With a rad sound system bro'?" he said in a sarcastic imitation of teenage boys, fist raised for a sarcastic fist bump.

Here came the hard part. Wilson had tried not to think about it. He knew this was betrayal, "Umm…actually I think I'm gonna look for a new car with Sam."

House's fist dropped to his side. There we go. Keep it light and casual and he'll think nothing of it. But this was House and of course he thought something of it. He thought everything of it. He thought more of it than Wilson himself, probably.

Somewhere between Wilson selling the Volvo and Wilson buying a new car with Sam, House had forgotten about food. The containers of food were heaped on the coffee table now, the TV on mute. He had House's diagnostic mind dedicated entirely to himself. Great. House was wearing the evil smirk that signaled an epiphany.

"This wasn't your idea," he smirked, realization all over his face, "that wouldn't make sense because you love the Volvo as much as I do. This was _her_ idea. She thinks it's a piece of junk and since your number one need is to satisfy the needs of whoever you're with…" House didn't finish the sentence but his expression read: "Q.E.D. Point proven."

Deflated, he returned to the dishes so he could escape the discomfort of House's scrutiny. He was right of course, it had been Sam's idea not his. "I've wanted to get rid of it for a long time," a weak defense, he knew, so he listed more possible reasons, "it's old and outdated, I've had it forever, I spend a fortune on repairs, the only reason I've kept it for so long is that I'm just used to it—"

"Are you sure you're still talking about the car?" House joked, indicating himself. His tone was good humored but there was the slightest edge to his voice that suggested the joke was merely a Trojan horse for his true thoughts. The expectant look in the blue eyes confirmed this theory. There was a note of desperation there.

_How dare you, _he wanted to scream at him, _how dare you suggest that? How dare you think that? How dare you question our friendship? He wanted to shake the thought out of him._

But that sort of display of emotions didn't fly in "House land". Instead decided to leave the dishes and walk into the living room.

"Yes House, the car is clearly a metaphor for _you_," he delivered the joke in a deadpan and then sprinkled some sarcasm on top, "twenty years of constant nagging didn't get rid of you but I'm hoping that if I offer the _car_ as a sacrifice, the heathen gods might make you disappear into thin air."

They smiled at each other in appreciation but he could see from House's expression that his answer had been wrong. House turned back to the TV, turned up the volume (the volume on _The L Word _nonetheless) and said the one word that Wilson had hoped he would say but realized he hadn't wanted to hear: "Okay."

"Okay?" Wilson echoed, dumbfounded.

"Okay," House affirmed.

"Okay?

"Oooh! Are we playing that game where you say everything I say with a question mark at the end?" House spat with a roll of his eyes, "_okay_, go buy a car with Sam," he provided casually.

He stood there, behind the couch, feeling like someone had just kick boxed all the air out of his lungs by serving a hard blow to his gut. Something snapped and House knew it too because he turned around to assess the damage.

Wilson had seen nagging House, disapproving House, self-sacrificing House, mutinous House and "you'll regret this later" House. But never had he ever seen I-don't-care-about-what-you-do House. He'd figured they would bicker for a while until either House gave him his reluctant consent or he agreed to take House along on the car-buying trip.

"Let's face it Wilson," House said coolly and it scared Wilson not because he hadn't heard worse from House but because he looked like he meant it: "you're a grown man and you can buy a car without your male best friend putting you in time-out. Go buy a car with Sam."

Then he turned back to the TV and turned the volume higher still to indicate that the conversation was over. Wilson stood, still confused, staring at the back of House's neck and almost begging for the sarcastic, judgmental gaze now.

A second passed, and then two or three. Wilson thought he'd been standing there for a whole minute, urging House to turn around, hoping now more than ever that they shared some sort of telepathic communication. Had all of this been over that stupid car? The Volvo, the keys to which were in his pocket right now. He felt the sharp, squiggly edge against his thigh. He'd used it before to get his mind off of things. He drove around like a madman after the infraction, after divorces two and three, after Amber, after Mayfield but not for a while now. Oh well, never too late to go for a drive.

"I'm going for a drive," he announced in a last desperate attempt to get a reaction from his friend and walked out of the apartment, out into…the rain. "Well, too late to go back for a jacket now", he walked to where he had parked the car. He walked slowly and let the rain soak him through. He felt that the miserable downpour was oddly appropriate for his mood and knew that voicing that opinion would earn him a roll of the eyes and an "Oh! Please!" from House. He stopped in front of the Volvo and contemplated the piece of crap that had started the whole conversation. "House is right," he sighed, "what's new?"

House _was_ right. He loved the old piece of crap. Down to its very last newly detailed, regularly repaired and still run-down stitch. And he also knew why House was making such a fuss. No matter how much he played dumb, he knew. It had been the first thing they'd bought together and while buying it they had realized for the first time that they were best friends.

The Volvo had played host to an alarming number of road trips, a good many more number of fights, a few odd moments best forgotten and hundreds of drunken rides home. Replacing the Volvo with a new car sure looked like he was replacing House with Sam, even if he wasn't.

Wilson slid into the driver's seat now, not caring that he was getting water on the seat and appreciating for the first time how comfortable it felt to be sitting there and gripping the wheel. If he was going to sell the car tomorrow, and he _was_ because otherwise House would win, he might as well enjoy it as much as possible right now. So he drove but not with a destination in mind, at least, not yet. For now he just wanted to go. The wipers allowing him to see the road for a few seconds before the rain coated the window again.

He smiled, remembering how House had tested the wipers in the store, claiming that Wilson was exactly the type of person they would send home with a nonfunctioning window wiper. He remembered the day they bought the car. It was a frosty afternoon in December, clear sky but deceivingly so. He hadn't known House for that long when they went to the dealership but the sight of him sitting in the Volvo with the sleek silver coating, seat rolled back, feet resting on the dashboard, winter hat half-pulled over his eyes, grinning up at him had made him buy the car right then and there.

* * *

"How about this one?" Wilson circled a black Vauxhall Vectra.

"Nice. Safe. Reliable," House nodded understandingly, "it tells people you're boring before you can even open your mouth. Good choice."

He disappeared. Wilson noticed that he did that a lot and practically had to run to catch up with him.

"If I'm so _boring_," he huffed at House, "why have you been hanging around my apartment for the past two years?"

"Calm down Jimbo," House laughed, "I said the car's boring, not you. And to answer your question, I don't know about your apartment but I'm here because I now that salesgirls can sell you anything with their cleavage. You would just go home with the most expensive car here."

This was probably true, Wilson knew, and it was time to get rid of the car he'd had when he was married to Sam. He'd put it off for a good two years now.

"What about this one?" Wilson ran his hand against a Ford Mondeo.

"That says you have a PhD in scrubbing floors not telling little kids they have cancer," House provided before skipping off.

"I don't care about what a car says about my status," Wilson said defensively, flashing an apologetic smile towards the young couple also taking a look at the Ford who were now glancing at the two doctors with contempt.

"Sure you do. Everyone does."

"Ok. Ok," he conceded, "what about the Ford Probe?"

House feigned throwing up in a nearby car, "Ford _probe_? Can't you picture the herd of girls running away from you after you tell them the name of your car?"

Next thing he knew House had disappeared once again and one of the aforementioned salesgirls with cleavage was asking him what he needed help with.

After chitchatting and discovering that the girl knew everything about flirting with costumers but nothing about cars, Wilson tore his eyes away from the cleavage and went in search of House.

He found his friend standing in front of a Volvo S-8, head tilted to the side and arms crossed against his chest as he admired the car. Wilson would come to miss that relaxed stance in the years after the infraction; he would come to miss the sight of his friend completely at ease. He thought nothing of it at the time.

House never said he liked the car but Wilson could see that he did. It was exactly the type of car that House would like. Sleek, silver, fast, young but not childish. When House climbed into the passenger's seat of the car, made himself comfortable and flashed a smile at him, he couldn't help but slip into the driver's seat and grin back.

House, in turn, rolled his seat back, rested his feet and the dashboard and turned up the radio. It felt like they were on the road already.

It felt just right and he knew it was irresponsible to buy a car just because he thought it would be fun to go on a road trip with his best friend but...when was the last time he took a chance?

"Hey," he waved his hands out of the window at a nearby shop girl, "I'll take this one."

Both House and the girl shot him a surprised look. "Don't you wanna take it out for a test drive first?" they cried in unison.

Wilson laughed at that, "nah! It feels just right."

"Ok. I'll go get the manager."

It wasn't the first time House had turned his diagnostic eye on him but it was the first time he looked so damn surprised by him. His head tilted to one side, a faint smile, blue eyes slightly narrowed.

Wilson knew now, after twenty years of House, that he'd been foolish back then. House had realized the significance of the act even if Wilson hadn't. Wilson knew that House hadn't meant to manipulate him into buying the car. Not yet, not at that point in their friendship. He hadn't even guessed that Wilson would get the car.

What that look meant (a younger Wilson hadn't realized it but he knew this in retrospect) was that House had discovered exactly how important he was to Wilson. The rest was history

* * *

Something made Wilson snap out of the memory. He realized that it was that fact that he was driving at full speed and there were bright headlights coming straight at him, blinding him. Next thing he knew he was spinning the wheel like his life depended on it, swerving out of the way of the oncoming car and as a result also swerving off the road entirely.

* * *

**Do drop a word! I'll wait until I have some feedback to edit and upload the next chapters. **


	2. The Road Trip Blues

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews. I will respond to them as soon as possible but I want you to know that I do appreciate it.**

**This chapter reveals a memory that House and Wilson have had in the car. Themes are dark and sexual but rated T. This isn't necessarily slash, I was trying to explore the relationship between the two. I think that the characters truly love each other (what kind of love though?) and the love manifests itself in different forms. Please read and let me know how you interpret the relationship in this fic. Constructive criticism is always welcome. **

* * *

"_And you can tell everybody,_" House sang dramatically, tilting his head towards Wilson, "_this is your song. It might be quite simple but now that it's done…"_

Wilson raised his brows quizzically, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. House actually had a great voice and Wilson was quite enjoying his singing but letting him know that was not an option. So he just kept silent and carefully constructed his expression to say: "I don't particularly want you to sing but I'll indulge you."

"_I hope you don't mind. I hope you don't mind. I hope you don't ma-hiiiiiiiiind," _House sang the last part out of tune just to spite him, he was sure of it. "_How wonderful life is, now you're in the world," _he ended with a flourish and a jokingly love-struck look towards Wilson. He couldn't help but laugh at the combination of House singing an Elton John song and House looking sappy.

"Are you gonna sing everything that comes on the radio?" he asked with a look of dread on his face. The singing had actually helped take his mind off of things. Not that House knew but he'd been having fights with Bonnie quite frequently now. It helped that the conference they were going to allowed him to get away from Bonnie and spend more time with the only person he seemed to be able to stand these days.

However, the main reason for going to the medical conference was that he knew House really wanted to go. House would never admit that he wanted to hear Dr. Helen present his paper on nephrology because that meant he would have to admit that he actually respected the work of another human being. But it had been clear to Wilson that he wanted to attend the conference from the moment he opened the envelope and saw the invitation. Another thing that House would never admit was that he couldn't fly all the way to DC on his own, the leg would absolutely kill him. He wouldn't be able to drive all the way to DC by himself either, not so soon after the infraction, not so soon after Stacy.

So Wilson had stepped in. Somewhere in his mind a voice that sounded oddly like Cuddy's had nagged at him: "_Don't humor him. You'll feed the ego. He's not a child." _

But that other part of him, the part that paid for House's lunch and made him get out of bed at 2 AM whenever House called, reminded him that House didn't show much of an interest in anything lately. Well, he didn't show any interest in anything or anyone that wasn't Vicodin and if he had any interest in attending the conference then he would get to go to the conference.

Wilson had glanced at the paper briefly, "Dr. Helen? Wow, the guy's a legend. House, this conference is _very _exclusive," he'd said, genuinely impressed, "mind if I come as your "plus one"? You get to bring a guest and I think this is really interesting."

House had looked at him then, eyes narrowed, "no you don't."

"Yes I do," Wilson had insisted softly, "the guy's really good at what he does and I want to see him at that conference." He hadn't been talking about Dr. Helen then.

House knew that too and when the older man looked up again he found in those blue eyes almost scared him. House had called him at unimaginable hours at night, smooched off of him, tormented him, asked for his help, asked for lunch and never ever said so much as a "thank you".

But the look that he'd found in his eyes then, there was so much gratitude there that Wilson felt the inexplicable need to hug his friend, an urge that he had to fight hard to suppress if he wanted to continue being friends with House. _Why are you so surprised that someone would do this for you? _He wanted to ask.

Wilson had been married twice and he saved lives every day but he had never felt as appreciated as he did in that moment, with House staring at him so intensely and so many unspoken emotions in his eyes. The man of so many words zapped speechless by a mere act of kindness.

"Well, Jimmy, if you wanted to be my "plus one", all you had to do was ask," he said while wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

He was brought back to the present by the sound of House's singing. "_You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen," _House sang in a girlish voice that was surprisingly close to the original and accompanied the tune with silly disco fingers pointing in every direction, bobbing the cane between his knees.

Wilson flashed him a genuine smile and changed the station to something less annoying as the sun rose to greet them on the road. He remembered thinking that there was nothing he would want to change at that moment. Just him, the road, the sunrise and House, singing at the top of his voice.

* * *

"You've been having sex," House declared victoriously. The statement came out of the blue as they were sitting in the car on the way back.

"You've been having Vicodin," Wilson announced, "are we playing state-the-obvious?"

"Who have you been having sex with?"

"I have a wife. Her name is Bonnie. You might have met her, seeing as you were the best man at our wedding."

"You're wearing a special tie today. It's _particularl_y ugly."

"Gee, thanks and you look _particularly _like an ass today. It brings out the _jerk _in your eyes."

House decided to ignore the weak comeback, "trouble in Bonnieville?"

_How does he know?_

"Your clothes were wrinkled for two weeks," House said in his diagnostic voice, as if he'd read Wilson's mind, "Your clothes are never wrinkled. You'd been sleeping in your office every night. And then suddenly, a week ago, you started dressing nicely again. Not "I'm happily married and have nothing to prove" nicely," House was enjoying himself now, the look on his face was mirthless, "you weren't dressing in the blacks, blues and grays of Bonnieville, you brought out the pinks, the lavenders, the greens and silly stripy patterns. You're a walking bachelor's party. You've been cheating on her."

The conference itself was great but of course House had to ruin the ride back by analyzing Wilson's marital issues.

Wilson scoffed but kept his eyes on the road, it was getting dark and he didn't want to risk an accident, "you got all of this from me wearing a paisley tie today? Has my green tie told you that I'm secretly a serial killer?" he asked in a deadpan.

House ignored the comment and continued to look very pleased with himself, "you're wearing the clothes you wear at the beginning of relationships. You've been getting some but not from Bonnie."

Wilson knew he'd figure it out sooner or later but he kept up the fight a little longer.

"Your logic is infallible," Wilson conceded, "but by that logic, if I'm dressing to impress the new object of my desire then why am I wearing my best tie now, in a car with you? Unless you're suggesting that I've been cheating on Bonnie with you without my own knowledge."

"Because you don't plan on going home tonight," House's voice was sinister now, "you're going to fly straight into the arms of the hussy."

"She's not a hussy!" Wilson objected, speeding past a lazy-moving truck as he did so.

"Aha!" House was absolutely beaming now, "you admit it."

"I never denied it," Wilson sighed, his voice small.

"I'll give your marriage three more months," House beamed.

He was fuming now, "House, my marriage is none of your business. I love Bonnie. I'm sorry that I cheated on her and I'm going to work it out with her. I don't understand why you have to—"

"Whoa!" House cried.

He'd become too distracted with being angry with House and had almost collided with another car but House had acted quickly, reached for the steering wheel and turned it away from smashing into the other car.

Wilson wasn't too fazed and kept glaring at House.

"This one will last House. I really love her."

"Okay."

Wilson was divorced three months later.

* * *

When he finally came to, it took him a moment to register what had happened and where he was. And then it all came back to him: bickering at House, deciding to sell the Volvo, going out for a drive. When he'd blacked out he some sort of dream, or maybe just daydreaming, of the time he went to a medical conference in DC with House.

He looked around now. The car he had almost driven into had sped away. It was still raining, so he couldn't have been passed out for that long. The airbag had saved his head from getting banged against the steering wheel with full force; still he diagnosed himself with a mild concussion. He would just have to give it a few minutes before driving again.

At the memory of swerving off the road, the first thought that occurred to him was: oh shit, the car!

He darted out of the door frantically, checking every inch of the car with great urgency. After examining it for a good minute or two, ignoring the downpour of rain on his back, he had to declare the car perfectly fine. "Seems like the car really is House," he thought with a bitter smile, "I think of the stupid car before thinking of myself." Then he leaned against the hood, his heart beating against his chest and his breathing irregular. He leaned against the hood and let the rain pour down on him. He couldn't even summon the energy to go and sit back down in the car. He mentally assessed his own physical state. He was fine, just a mild concussion. Then what was bothering him?

He thought back to the dream he'd been having. He had to stop himself from thinking about that trip more often than he wanted to admit. Only in those few vulnerable moments of being unconscious would his mind allow him to venture into those territories and now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

* * *

After House had thoroughly analyzed his marriage with Bonnie they drove on in absolute silence. Half an hour passed and then an hour, Wilson felt himself getting tired and struggling to remain awake. He didn't remember the trip taking so long on their way there.

"Hey, House can you check the map again?" he practically yawned. Amongst his many talents House was also great at reading maps so he naturally took charge of the directions every time they were in a car.

House looked at the map, which was already splayed out on his lap, and nodded his head understandingly.

"Looks about right," he confirmed.

Wilson peeked at the map from the corner of his eye. "House," he almost shouted, fully awake now, "you're not even looking at the map. You're holding it upside down."

"Oh ooops," House said in a monotone, clearly not surprised or upset that the map had been upside down.

With sigh, Wilson pulled off the road into a clearing in the nearby forest and put the car into park. He made sure they were well off the road.

"House," he said demandingly.

"Wilson?" his friend replied, looking suspiciously innocent.

"You did this on purpose. You got us lost on purpose. I asked you two hours ago if I was going the right way and you said yes," Wilson blabbered on, beside himself with anger, "why would you get us lost on purpose…unless…"

He looked over at House and it all clicked into place. He ran a finger along his ugly paisley tie, "unless you wanted to make sure that we got back to Princeton very late. So late that I wouldn't have time to "fly into the arms of the hussy"."

"You're welcome," House said with a smug smile.

"For what?" Wilson shrieked.

"Saving your marriage."

So House hadn't done this in order to ruin his fun. He'd been, in his own sordid way, trying to help. And boy, did Wilson need help, he thought it would last forever with Bonnie but one fight and he'd ran away from their home, slept with someone else.

He'd meant to make it right though.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. "House," he said softly, "I wasn't going to cheat on Bonnie tonight. I was going to go home and tell her what I'd done and apologize to her," he confessed, "hence the ugly tie," he added with a bitter smile and ran his hand along said tie.

"Oh," House regarded him for a moment, clearly surprised by this new piece of information, "do you always do that? Tell them that you cheated?"

"Yes."

"Then I guess I saved your marriage one way or another," House said softly, never taking his eyes off of him, "she's not going to forgive you."

Wilson regained some of his humor, "ye of little faith."

"I'm a realist."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. "We're gonna have to sleep in the car tonight," Wilson sighed.

"But I don't want to mommy," House cried grumpily.

"Well, I'm too tired to drive and you're falling asleep too," Wilson explained, not wanting to tell House he couldn't drive so soon after the infraction, "and there aren't any hotels in sight."

"Do you _want _us to get eaten alive by wild animals?"

"House, it's a national park. There are no wild animals."

House rolled his eyes grumpily, "fine."

Both men rolled their car seats back to create makeshift beds and lay down, facing opposite directions.

"Hey House?"

"What?"

"Why were you trying to save my marriage with Bonnie?" he asked, "you don't even like her."

There was a long pause and then: "well, she seems to make you happy."

More silence. Wilson wanted to say something in response, to thank him or to tell him how impressed he was that even with the infraction and with Stacy leaving, House still kept track of his activities and actually gave a crap. But he couldn't think of a way to put those emotions into words, so he just let the sentence hang and fell asleep a few minutes later.

* * *

When Wilson woke up he thought it was because it was cold and he'd forgotten to turn on the heat but he was so tired that he didn't immediately sit up and reach for the heater. Instead he lied there for a few minutes with his eyes closed and willed himself to get up. That is, until he heard the dreadful noise that made his whole body tense. It was the sound of bitten back chokes, of a hurt animal left there to die or of someone who was in agonizing pain but was fighting hard not to cry out.

Slowly, not wanting House to know that he was awake, he cracked an eye open. He could see the dark outline of House's body against the moonlight and he could see one hand grasping the bad leg, grasping so hard that his knuckles had turned white and his hand was trembling.

He could hear a suppressed grunt every few seconds but other than that House was keeping absolutely silent, his entire body shaking from the effort. Wilson wondered for a second which one hurt more: the thigh or the effort it took to keep himself from crying out?

His own heart was beginning to race. Suddenly House's desire for a hotel was explained. He'd wanted a hotel, where, if he experienced pain he could walk out where Wilson couldn't hear him.

He stared at House's shaking form, wanting desperately to do something, anything, to relieve some of his pain but suddenly finding it impossible to move.

All of a sudden House turned around to face him. Wilson had no idea how House had found out that he was awake but somehow he had. It was at these times that Wilson thought House resembled god but then, House himself would chide Wilson: "_God doesn't limp."_

"It's nothing," House said, his voice almost steady, "go back to sleep." He looked like he was going to be sick with the pain.

"House," he said softly because he didn't know what else to say, "Vicodin?" he added tentatively, half sitting up in his place.

"Already…took…" he gasped, losing control now, his face contorted with pain, small tears escaping the corner of his scrunched up eyes.

Wilson could almost feel the pain himself, looking at House and not being able to do anything. That was a form of torture too. Suddenly, he wanted to share House's pain, to suffer just as much as House was suffering. He wanted to feel House's body, tense with pain and tell House that he was not alone, that he would never be alone.

Wilson was pretty damn sure he was straight and had never before wanted to kiss another guy in his life but right then and there he honestly wanted to kiss his best friend. He wanted to be kissing House when he cried out in pain, to catch the pain in his throat, to feel it in his body. His panicked, sleep-ridden brain wanted him to take House in his arms and share the pain. He wanted to trace the curve of his lips, he wanted House to kiss him back with such violence that he, himself, would hurt more than House. He wanted to kiss his best friend until he had no sense left in him to feel the pain in his thigh.

The need was overbearing. He wanted this more than he had wanted anything else in his life. He reached out and put his hand on the leg, right next to where House's hand was resting.

"What are you—"

The rest of the question was drowned because Wilson had already lowered his lips onto his. It wasn't a kiss at first, he was just pressing his lips to House's, not moving or breathing. Then slowly he started to move against House's lips, kissing him firmly. He was almost sure that it would come to an end at any second, that House would yell at him and ask him what the hell he was doing but after a second House began to kiss him back ferociously. House kissed him back with great urgency and frustration; almost as if there was something he needed to say but couldn't find the words for. When the next wave of pain came, House shuddered beneath him and moaned in pain, a moan that Wilson caught in his mouth and felt in his spine.

They attacked each other, kissing, pulling and pushing. If Wilson didn't feel like he was kissing his best friend it was because what they were doing wasn't similar to any type of kissing he had experienced in the past. It resembled a strange form of wrestling more than anything. The experience was not comparable to anything else but if he were to compare, House was an excellent kisser, his lips searing and his intensity effortless.

Wilson didn't know, and could not figure out for years to come, what compelled him to do what he did next but suddenly his hand, as if of its own accord, flew to the injured thigh and squeezed it so hard that House cried out in pure agony. Not even masking the pain now, he cried out in pain until Wilson let go of the thigh. The noise that came out of his throat was animalistic. His pain so raw that despite the ugliness it was the single most magnificent thing Wilson had ever born witness to. He had absolutely no idea what had driven him to do that, to purposely hurt his best friend, but he took a sordid pleasure in the fact that, even as he was being hurt, House trusted him so much that he did not tear his mouth away or question him about what he was doing. He simply delved deeper into Wilson's mouth by cupping his face and pulling him down on top of him. Lips and tongues collided, not even sure of what they were doing but wanting more and more and more. For a brief second he became aware that he was actually on top of House, the smell of soap and whiskey and House in his noise, his lips swollen from being kissed and House's scruffy cheeks buried in his neck. He decided to remember the moment as it was and remember that it was real.

Then Wilson put his hand on the injured thigh again and squeezed, ever so softly this time. Squeezed again and let go once more, until he established a rhythm that wasn't dissimilar from the rhythm of their lips. Slowly, House's moans turned from those of pain into pleasure and Wilson realized that he was now massaging the thigh and that the massage was making it much better. Hell, it was actually drawing erotic moans from his friend.

Like a thirsty man who has just spotted water in a desert, Wilson focused all of his energy on massaging the leg. He tore himself away from House's lips and forced his addled brain to remember the thigh muscles he'd learnt all about in med school (or what remained of those muscles in House's thigh) and massage every single one of them slowly and carefully. At first House groaned his satisfaction but then, after a few minutes, his breathing slowed down and became more regular, his face relaxed and his eyes fluttered shut. Before Wilson could say anything, House was asleep. He continued the massage for a few more minutes so as not to wake him up and then eased his hand away.

Finally alone, he took a moment to observe the situation. House sleeping there, exhausted from the pain, his lips swollen. His own lips almost fleshy from kissing House's lips, his neck, his cheeks.

It hit him that he had kissed his best friend; he had taken pleasure from drawing pain from him and then soothing it away. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

And worst of all was that House was in that sort of pain. A sort of pain that made him abandon dignity and howl like a wounded animal. Wilson knew now the pain that he was really masking and vowed never to forget that again, no matter how much House insisted he was fine and made sarcastic jokes about it. He also decided to prescribe House's Vicodin himself, a decision that he would come to regret bitterly.

Crushed under the weight of everything (House being in pain, kissing House, his marriage in shambles and all) he hugged the steering wheel and sobbed. He had not cried after the infraction, not during his divorce and not when he lost his favorite kid to cancer two months before. He hadn't cried since his brother David had left but he cried now. He sobbed silently, his whole body shaking with the sobs. He buried his forehead in the steering wheel, welcomed the harsh pressure against his skin and cried some more. He cried until he fell asleep.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning he was not hunched over the wheel anymore. He was lying down, his jacket covering him and the heater on check on House but the seat next to him was empty.

He was pretty sure he hadn't done any of those things himself. He turned around to check on House but the seat next to him was empty. Slightly worried, he ventured out to find House and saw him in the narrow clearing, a little bit ahead, amongst some trees, his posture straight and still.

"House," he hurried to House's side, not looking so much at what House was looking at but instead at the expression on House's face. House's mouth was slightly agape, his eyes widened in surprise and his head shaking from side to side.

"House, what is it? What's—" and then he turned around to look at what had caused House to be in a state of shock.

In front of them, literally a few feet away from their car and slightly covered by trees was a big brown building with parking out front and a welcoming sign that read "The Holiday Inn".

In light of the whole situation, having to sleep in the Volvo, kissing his best friend and witnessing that sort of pain, it was pretty funny that they had been in walking distance of a hotel the whole time.

Not able to help himself Wilson started to laugh uncontrollably, ignoring House who was still staring at the hotel in disbelief. Soon Wilson was bent over, holding his stomach, in hysterics. He looked up at House and they made eye contact. As if they were in on the same private joke, which they were, House started to laugh along with him, chuckles at first that grew louder and louder. They laughed and laughed, the ridiculousness of their situation as ironic as it was.

When they had recovered, House grinned at him, "we need a proper breakfast. You're buying."

Well, at least Wilson knew that nothing would be different or awkward.

* * *

Finally hoisting himself up from where he was leaning on the hood, Wilson found that he had been both laughing and crying (while still standing in the rain) and must have looked like a madman. He dragged his soaked frame inside the car and wiped water and tears from his cheek.

A drop of the water fell onto the leather seat next to him. He turned to look at the seat, empty now, and realized that he always thought of it as House's seat. He'd gone for a ride so he could get away from House but now sitting alone and thinking of all the things that had happened in the Volvo he wished that House was sitting in his seat, turning a diagnostic eye on him and telling him in a satisfied manner, exactly what was wrong with him.

* * *

**Please review! As all you writers know, reviews make life better and I'd like to know what you think of the relationship between the two characters. Thanks to all anonymous reviewers too!**


	3. Caring is Creepy

**A/N: . Your reviews mean the world to me. I haven't been able to reply because I'm on a trip but they really keep me writing. Keep them coming!**

**As you can tell, the story is told mostly in flashbacks. This chapter is a flashback to when Wilson was just about to marry Julie. You will be able to tell when Wilson snaps back to the present and when it's a flashback. Read on, I hope you enjoy this slightly longer and more emotional chapter. **

* * *

"House," he said, almost pleading, "Say something."

"What do you want me to say?"

Suddenly Wilson was painfully aware that he was in the passenger's seat of the Volvo and that House was driving. This reversal of roles made him feel helpless and vulnerable. He swallowed hard, leaving the bitter taste of impending doom trailing down his throat.

He had just told House that he and Julie were engaged and seeing as House was very vocal about his opinions, he had expected everything but the stunned silence.

"What you always say," Wilson said, "berate me and tell me exactly why you think it's a horrible idea."

House was pretending that the road was absolutely fascinating, "but you know that I think it's a horrible idea."

There was silence. Yes, House made his feelings about Julie very clear and had stopped short of screaming: "I told you so!" when he and Bonnie had gotten divorced. Surely House predicted another divorce, another failed marriage.

"House I want you to be the best man," Wilson said softly. Hoping that House wouldn't turn him down.

"Julie won't like that," House said with the tiniest hint of a smile, taking pleasure in Julie's misery, but never taking his eyes off the road. Wilson could see that House was glad that he had asked him so readily. He could also see that House was glad to be asked despite the fact that Julie was opposed to it. He could see that House enjoyed taking priority over Julie.

In reality, Wilson always did that. He always overlooked everyone else in his life and made pleasing House his number one priority. He just wished that House would stop being surprised by that. That's all he asked for. It would be ludicrous afterall if Wilson expected to be a priority for House. House was very good at making himself his own number one priority.

"No, she won't like it," Wilson agreed with a small nod of his head. House turned his head the slightest bit to look at him and they smiled at each other but didn't say anything. They both understood very well that House had just accepted.

"So why did you "_have _to drive"?" Wilson asked in a lighter tone and with raised eyebrows.

"Well, you're taking me out to lunch to the new Italian place," House said with an unspoken "duh", "and you don't _know _where it is, do you? So I had to drive us there."

"Oh of course I'm taking you out to the most expensive restaurant in the city," Wilson rolled his eyes, "forgive me for not remembering, seeing as I wasn't informed of that."

House smiled at him, a surprising measure of warmth and affection in the smile and in his eyes as he turned the corner to arrive in front of the restaurant.

"Hey, Wilson, for the bachelor's party—"

* * *

It wasn't even raining anymore, it was pouring and Wilson couldn't see further than a few inches. Nonetheless he put the car into drive and pulled onto the road as he smiled at the memories. He looked over at his friend's empty seat again and knew that he had to drive home and see House. He didn't know what he would say or if House was even awake but he knew that, for once, he didn't want to be in the Volvo while trying to think things through. He just wanted to be sitting on the couch with House, watching The L Word on mute. He didn't care that his head still hurt and that the roads were dangerous, all that mattered was seeing his best friend and telling him…well, he didn't know what he was going to tell House but he knew there was something really important that House had to know.

He realized he hadn't thought about Sam or how she factored into his life at all. He wondered if that was a bad thing but decided not to worry about it.

* * *

A few weeks after House had agreed to be his best man he burst into House's office with, what he hoped, was a good measure of urgency.

"House," he announced, hoping that this would cause his friend to sit up in his seat and pay attention.

The diagnostician, however, was leaning back in his seat, feet on the table. He was turning the chair to the right and then to the left, right and left, over and over to the rhythm of the music that was playing in the room. His eyes were closed and he was using his cane to throw the small red "thinking ball" into the air and then catch it again. He did this fluently, without dropping the ball or opening his eyes.

A scratchy record of Elvis' "Love Me Tender" was blaring on the gramophone:

_Love me tender,_

_Love me sweet,_

_Never let me go_

_You have made my life complete,_

_And I love you so _

"House," he repeated, louder over the music.

His best friend did not flinch or otherwise indicate that he'd heard his name being called but he finally spoke, as if to the room, "did you know Elvis didn't write this song? A man named Ken Darby wrote it for him. It's about Darby's wife."

Wilson rolled his eyes at House's tangents but remained perfectly serious, "look I need to ask you something."

House cracked one blood-shot eye open, still bouncing the ball, "the song stayed on top of the charts for five weeks."

"House, seriously, I need to talk to you."

House was on his feet now; the red ball abandoned on the table, and was walking towards him with a sly smile, "the guy wrote one of the best known songs of all time by staring at his wife for a few second. _One wife. _You have three to choose from. I wish you would write a song about one of them and get filthy rich so I don't have to work this job all the time." House looked haggard and sunken, he really seemed to despise his job at the moment.

He was tempted to give House a lecture on how he would never survive without his job and how Wilson would decidedly not spend his money on House if he hit the jackpot. Instead he explained, "well, I've had _two wives _actually and I wanted to talk to you about the soon to be third and last wife."

House tilted his head to one side, studied him and decided to ignore the fact that Wilson was actually here to talk about something, "eight year old female. Respiratory distress. Joint pain. Traces of blood in the urine," House listed, "and her left lung is failing. Oh, and she has a preexisting congenital heart disease that's been under control for the past two years. Go."

_Love me tender,_

_Love me true,_

_All my dreams fulfilled_

Wilson furrowed his brows trying to concentrate despite the loud music, swept up into House's problems, as always, "that doesn't make sense! Her lungs are failing because her heart already had a problem?"

House, looking like death, nodded his head and tapped his cane on the ground. They were both silent for a moment.

"Eight year old girl huh?" Wilson asked kindly, understandingly.

House rolled his eyes, "there's just something I'm missing. That's what's bothering me."

"Right. The great Doctor Gregory House doesn't care about patients," Wilson said, " I forgot."

"What did you want to ask?" House asked walking over to the gramophone.

_For my darling,_

_I love you_

_And I always will—_

House brought the music to a screeching stop just as Wilson blurted out, "I need you to buy Julie and me a wedding present."

His best friend turned around to study him with raised eyebrows. He certainly looked intrigued now.

"You're asking me to buy you something?" House asked disbelievingly. He seemed interested now. He approached him, limping more than usual but still quick on his feet.

"Well," Wilson prepared his sales pitch. He kept his voice calm and casual, as if House buying him a wedding present was the most natural thing in the world, "the wedding is in a month. Julie and I registered for gifts but most of them are gone by now. There are still a few pieces left but you should hurry."

House looked incredulous for a second and then amused, "oh that's a good one. You think I'm going to buy you a present and everything? I was hoping you would be satisfied with a bachelor's party."

"House, I'm serious."

His friend sat back down in a chair and Wilson was left towering above House's sitting form, yet he still felt like a little boy called into his father's study to be punished for a particularly horrible act of mayhem.

"I never bought you a gift when you got married to Bonnie," House mused, "you didn't seem to mind."

Wilson decided to play this one deadpan, "well, I have since lent you a lot more money and I'd like to start getting a return on it."

There was a brief silence where House studied him carefully. "No. This isn't about the money," House thought out loud, "which means that it's about Julie."

Wilson sighed in surrender, "okay! Fine! She doesn't like you. Happy?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that I'm actually happy," House chirped in his sarcastic tone and rested his feet on the table, "but I'm mildly satisfied. I don't like her either."

He finally gave up on standing and took the seat across from House, "I just know that she doesn't approve of you being the best man—"

"So you thought if I bought her a nice present she'd come around...yeah, yeah, I get it," House nodded.

"So you'll do it?"

House laughed, "of course not! I hate her."

"Come one House. Buy one of the cheaper ones," Wilson conceded, "she won't care! It will really ease things between the two of you."

House rolled his eyes, "even an overdose of ex lax won't ease things between the two of us—" House paused suddenly, his thoughts drifting somewhere else, "the girl…her feet were swollen when they brought her in."

Wilson considered this, "infectious endocarditis?"

House nodded his head; "it would make sense if the blood cultures hadn't come back clean."

They both mulled it over in their heads for a few seconds until House broke the silence, "anyway, Julie and I are never going to be friends. I'm not wasting my money on her."

Wilson nodded resolutely, having expected this outcome, and produced a note card from his pocket, "okay then. Just sign this."

This turn of events took House off-guard, "what is this?"

"I figured you wouldn't actually buy anything so I'm just going to buy it for you and send this card along with it," Wilson explained calmly.

"You never expected me to say yes," House mused with a sly smile as he studied the card, "but you asked anyway."

"Thought I'd give it a try," Wilson shrugged, "now sign it."

House flopped it down on the table, "nope."

"What?"

"Well, if I sign it Julie might get the impression that I bought her a present," House explained, "that would be a terrible misunderstanding. If you're gonna fake the present, you're gonna have to fake the card too."

Wilson turned to look at him on his way to the door, "you're an ass. You know that?"

House didn't say anything as Wilson walked to the door and pulled it open. Wilson wanted to rip him apart for not caring. All he ever wanted was for the two most important people in his life to be able to stand each other and neither of them made the effort, neither of them cared what he wanted. When he couldn't help it anymore, he turned around to face House again. "I've never asked you for anything before," he said quietly, sadly. He knew he was pointing out the obvious but it was something that he'd just realized. He'd never asked House for anything before and now that he had the answer had been a firm no.

The expression on House's face was unreadable even as they made eye contact. House opened his mouth as if to say something and closed it again but before he could actually produce a coherent sentence Wilson turned around and left the office.

* * *

He saw House later that day from his office window, standing on the balcony, leaning heavily on the wall and looking off into the distance in a melancholic state. Feeling the usual rush of emotion for his friend, Wilson tore himself from paper work and rushed to his side.

"Is she dying?" Wilson asked softly, breaking the silence.

House nodded, "everybody's dying. She's just dying very quickly."

More silence as House spun his cane around and around, "so what are you buying?"

Wilson had no idea what he was talking about.

"For Julie," House clarified, "I know you're not going to give up this easily. You're buying her something, pretending it's from me. What are you buying?"

"A flowered set of Dansk dinnerware," Wilson wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't going to.

"It's her favorite thing on the list isn't it?"

"Of course."

The dinner set was of pale cream china; it had delicate soft pink and red flowers painted on the edges and looked like it was going to break if anyone looked at it too hard. Julie had squealed with delight when they saw it in the department store and decided that they would register it, even though it was too expensive and they would probably never have a fancy enough occasion to actually use the set. If Julie received that china from House it was possible that she would hate his best friend a little bit less.

House shook his head at Wilson's persistence, "did _you_ put anything on that list?"

He had actually. They were supposed to pick everything together but Julie had ended up choosing most of the things. She'd even registered an armoire, a dresser for herself and mirror set. And then she'd said: "it'll look bad if I have too many things on the list. Pick something you want."

So Wilson had wandered around and ended up in the luggage section. He'd always shopped quickly, heaping his arms with nice dress shirts, colorful ties and work shoes. The shop assistants gathered around him, showing him a million things he could register but he didn't find any of those things appealing. After ten minutes of being shown around against his will, he found the only thing that had ever caught his eyes: an Italian leather briefcase. Wilson saw it sitting there by itself in one of the glass displays, the only beautiful thing in a sea of things that looked exactly the same to him.

It was ochre colored leather with pale yellow stitching in the inside pockets. The leather was as soft as butter and smelled delicious but the briefcase itself looked sharp and business-like. The clasp was the palest gold, silver pens were placed delicately in the side pockets and it had a compartment for anything he would ever want to carry. He had fallen in love with it but he also knew it was ridiculous that the briefcase cost almost as much as Julie's plate set. He would feel silly if he bought it for himself but he wanted it so much that he put it on his list anyway. It was still possible, though not probable, that someone would buy it for him. As Julie had pointed out, "oh my god James! Nobody is ever going to buy the groom an expensive present. The wedding is all about the bride."

He snapped out of his thoughts and turned to House, "yeah I did register something."

House raised his brows, "and you're going to buy what she wants instead of what you want?"

"Um. Yeah."

"So you're going to cater to her every need until you have nothing left to give and then you'll be so fed up with the situation that you'll cheat on her," House predicted, "and ruin your marriage. Great."

Wilson remained silent. He wanted to explain to House that he loved Julie and wanted to make her happy but he knew House would not sympathize.

"When are you ever going to take care of _you_?" House wondered out loud and then, "what did you register?"

He didn't feel like being ridiculed, so he shrugged the thought away, "nothing you'd be interested in."

Even as the words came out of his mouth he could see that they triggered something in House's mind and led him to solve the mystery. He saw this happen all the time. The diagnostician would tilt his head to the side, squint his eyes and have one of his infamous epiphanies. He would almost always storm out of the room without saying a word and cure the patient right before it was too late.

"Nothing I'd be interested in, of course," House chuckled to himself as he practically ran towards the patient's room and left Wilson standing there, staring at the sunset with a bitter smile on his face. Yup, he always stormed out of the room.

* * *

He saw House yet again, later that night. He had no idea what time it was but it was dark and he was filling some tedious forms for accounting. The prospect that he would be done with the paperwork in the next hour was slim to none but, of course, House had to burst into his office looking bright eyed and bushy tailed. Seeing House post-mystery solving was like seeing a crack addict who had just gotten a fix. He looked quite pleased with himself and he was whistling the tune to "New York, New York".

"Come on Jimmy," he chirped, "you can finish that tomorrow."

"So the eight year old girl is going to be fine," Wilson guessed out loud with an unspoken "that's why you're so cheery all of a sudden" hanging somewhere in there.

"She's on antibiotics for infectious endocarditis," House nodded, "she'll be fine by breakfast."

Normally Wilson would realize out loud that it had been infectious endocarditis after all, ask why it hadn't shown in the blood cultures and ask House how he'd figured it out. Now, he didn't give a crap and he wanted House to leave so he could finish up and go home. He didn't even want Julie to awake when he got back.

House, detecting this dark mood, leaned against the door; "someone's got their panties in a bunch."

"Not everyone is as skilled as you are when it comes to avoiding paperwork," Wilson said darkly without looking up from his work.

He could feel House's grin in the room though, "just stick'em in the janitor's closet, I always say."

Wilson waved a hand at him and shooed him away, "go administer some antibiotics."

House rolled his eyes, "do you think Mick Jagger cleans up after the concert?"

"Then go torture some of your groupies," Wilson huffed, "just leave me alone."

"Is this about the dinner set? Did I hurt your feelings because I wouldn't buy you plates?" House said in his baby voice.

"Shut up House," he muttered under his breath. He wanted to tell House that he was upset because no one ever cared about what he wanted, because Julie certainly didn't care about what he wanted and because _House_ was his best friend and he cared least of all what he wanted. He wanted to tell House how much it sucked that he would do _anything_ for him without asking for anything in return but that he would always know that he wouldn't get anything in return even if he asked for it. He wanted to ask House if he even gave a crap about him or if he just enjoyed having another puzzle to work on. Unfortunately he didn't know how to say any of that without sounding silly.

House tilted his head to one side, ignoring his obvious misery; "Tornado Storm and Lightning Bolt, monster truck rally tomorrow night. I have two tickets."

He finally looked up from his work to look at House's lanky form, leaning against the doorway, cane tucked under his arm and head tilted to one side. Blue eyes and crooked smile were directed at him. He couldn't help but remember how this lips had kissed him on the uncomfortable leather seats of the Volvo. He remembered how he would have done anything to take away House's pain in that moment and he realized that it didn't matter if House cared or not because at the end of the day, no matter what House did, Wilson couldn't stop himself from caring.

"Sounds good," Wilson said and then, without another word, he packed his work away for later. House waited for him to put the papers away and grab his coat and they both walked out together. There was no need to say anything else.

* * *

It was a week later when Wilson finally got around to going to the department store and buying Julie's Dansk dinnerware. He filled the Volvo up with gas on his way there and listened to the oldies station of the radio because House always turned it to that station and he couldn't be bothered to change it.

Once there he asked for the person who had helped them before and told him thatshe was buying the china.

He signed the check reluctantly and eyed the china. It was nice but he didn't get what was so special about it. They were just some really nice plates with impressive artwork on them. With a sigh, he signed House's name on the card and asked for it to be delivered to their home address as soon as possible.

He turned to go but then he remembered his briefcase, the one that was made of buttery leather and had perfect stitching and cost a fortune. A voice very much like House's voice rang in his head: _when are you going to take care of "you"?_

In an empowered moment, he turned to the man and said, "you know what? I think I'll buy the briefcase too."

"Of course sir," he cooed, looking at the registry and then looking back up at him, "it was actually already bought by someone else."

He was sure his mouth dropped to the floor, "what? Someone bought us that? Who?"

"The gentleman said he'd send the gift to you anonymously."

Could it be? Who else would send him a gift like that anonymously? But it wasn't possible. House would never come all the way there. He hadn't even told House that he'd wanted the briefcase.

He was back at the counter now, almost leaning into it, "it's very important that I know who bought the briefcase. What did he look like?"

The man looked down his nose at Wilson, "I'm afraid I don't remember him at all sir."

This reeked of House. Sleek as could be, Wilson slipped him a twenty, "does that jog your memory?"

The man didn't look impressed, "funny. I remember that the man gave me a very similar piece of paper."

Wilson rolled his eyes and took out a fifty. Of course, House had paid the sales associate twenty bucks and asked him to keep his mouth shut. "Does that help?"

"Everything seems to be coming back to me."

"Did he have a cane?"

"Yup."

"Blue eyes?"

"Yup."

"Real jerk?"

"That's him."

Wilson turned to leave, feeling utterly dumbfounded, "did I just pay that guy fifty bucks to tell me something I knew?" he wondered out loud.

"Yes you did," the man yelled after him as he walked out of the store. He walked out into the sunlight, squinting as he did so and walked back to where he had parked the Volvo. He didn't get in immediately, rather her leaned against it and admired the sunset. He was the only person in the parking lot and he found that oddly peaceful.

He thought about what had just happened. House had figured out where they had registered for gifts and gone all the way down there. He'd picked out the item that belonged to Wilson, not hard to figure out but still, and he'd bought him an expensive present that definitely was not worth the money. He'd asked for it to be sent anonymously.

He realized then, for the first time, that House cared. He realized then that House cared in a way that was different from how other people cared. He cared in a way that made him send Wilson an anonymous wedding present. He cared in a way that made him butt into Wilson's life like an annoying jerk. Suddenly the fact that House happened to ask him, no _tell him, _to come over with beer and pizza every time he lost an important patient didn't seem like a coincidence anymore. The fact that House would read Wilson's email, check his calendar, stalk his secretary, snarl at Julie, it all seemed a little less juvenile now, just a little less.

Wilson had a sort of epiphany of his own. He was standing there in the parking lot of the mall, the sun was a delicious shade of red far in the west, the wind was tousling his hair as Julie would in the morning when she felt like cuddling, his hands were buried deep in his pocket as he leaned against the Volvo: House cared.

* * *

He brought the Volvo to an abrupt stop just as he snapped out of the memory. He was moving way too slowly because of the rain and his need to be there at the apartment and see House was suddenly overbearing. He was going to walk. He pulled the Volvo into a parking lot and locked the doors and ran for dear life. The rain was beating down on him, bashing him in the face, and making it hard to see or run. He had no idea how he was running so fast when he was buried ankle deep into the water.

And this time what he experienced did not resemble House's epiphanies at all. It didn't hit him like a ton of bricks or dawn on him out of nowhere. It came to him slowly; it came to him with the steady sound of rain falling on the asphalt and the sound of his own feet wading through the water. It came to him with the feeling of the rain turning his skin into ice. It came to him because he had already known it for a very long time: he was in love with House.

He wasn't sure if that meant that he _wanted _House, he didn't know what the hell he wanted. All he knew was that he had to tell House that he was the most important person in the world, that he loved him the most, that he would do anything for him.

When he thought his lungs would give out and his bones would shatter from the cold, he finally arrived at the apartment. With the excitement of someone who discovers something that had always been there, a bit like Isaac Newton or so House would say, he ran up the flight of stairs and almost running into a beautiful, dark-haired, made-up girl with a dark trench coat and high heels who was undoubtedly a hooker and undoubtedly coming from their apartment. At the moment Wilson found even the fact that House would call a hooker as a way to deal with his problems to be incredibly fantastic and lovable. The girl shuffled away sheepishly, blushing hard, as Wilson ran to the apartment.

"House," he announced, adrenaline threatening to burst his veins. He was soaked and freezing and knew that the clothes he was wearing were no longer usable and that he would be sick in the morning but he wanted to explain, to make House understand—

But he knew as soon as his eyes adjusted to the dark that something was horribly wrong. The only light in the apartment came from the television and there was something stagnant in the air.

"House," he called again, frantic. He remembered the hooker in the hall. What if—

"House," he repeated, almost falling to his knees now but finding the strength to venture into apartment and physically look for his friend instead of shouting his name. Hopefully House was passed out on the couch, right where he'd left him. He was probably there. "But what if he's not there?" Wilson thought, urging himself to walk to the couch. He felt the bile rise in his throat as he tiptoed closer.

* * *

Wilson received the anonymously sent briefcase a week after his visit to the department store. The briefcase was still the same soft leather and golden buckle that he remembered and every bit as impressive looking as he'd thought. He took it to work the next day, coffee in his hand, making the usual stop at the front desk to say hello to the receptionist and ask for patient files.

Maggie, the receptionist, took note of the new briefcase immediately, "wow, Dr. Wilson, that's the nicest briefcase I've ever seen in this hospital. That couldn't have been cheap."

"It was a present," Wilson supplied, looking up at Maggie and just as he did so, House entered the lobby on his way to the elevators. He watched as House's eyes rested on the briefcase and then traveled to his face, a note of satisfaction in his smile. They locked eyes for a second. "It's the nicest thing anyone's ever given me," he added loudly, never breaking eye contact with his friend. House nodded in what seemed to be an acceptance of Wilson's gratitude and then the contact was broken and House was walking towards the elevators.

"Who's it from?" Maggie asked.

"An anonymous gift," Wilson said, watching House walk away from the corner of his eye.

"Wow, someone must like you a lot," she laughed as she hurried off to get the files.

Wilson was now staring at House while he disappeared into the crowded elevator and blended in with the crowd, "yeah, I think he does."

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed. Reviews are welcome in any form. Quick words of encouragements and constructive criticism is welcome. **

**Sorry about any typos in the past chapters. I can't polish and edit, as I'm on a trip right now. The whole story will be taken down and polished once I get back. As for now, a beta would be great. Any takers?**

******I'm very excited about writing the next chapter. It's climactic, I'm telling you.**  



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